


Choices

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Reveal, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a hunting trip gone wrong, Merlin is forced to save Arthur with his magic, despite being injured. Arthur reacts badly, and takes Merlin captive back to Camelot to face trial - Or, he would have had they not run across bandits. They ransom the king, but Arthur wants nothing to do with the sorcerer, who suffers the abuse of the bandits. Merlin whump abound. Two-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M, for graphic depictions of torture, wounds, and rape.

Part 1

 

 _For a split second, Merlin felt weightless, discombobulated._  

 _The ground beneath his feet had given way, and he was falling, flailing his gangly limbs. He heard Arthur cry out somewhere below him, felt the king's name forming on his own lips -_  

 _And then he struck something, hard—Or something struck him, and he was blinded by the pain that exploded in his head. Gasping soundlessly for air, Merlin pushed himself up from his place on the ground where he had finally tumbled and skidded to a halt, eyes roaming. The blackness receded, and he saw loose red stones tumbling still down the sheer cliff, the red dirt crumbling beneath his hands._  

 _Arthur was a few feet below him, his blonde hair coated with the rustic dust. He pressed the heel of his palm to his brow to stem the blood flowing above his right eye, squinting. Only Merlin saw that his king was still in danger._  

 _Ignoring the hotness trickling from behind his ear, Merlin extended his hand, whispering powerful, ancient words. He felt his husky voice rumbling in his chest, but did not hear it. His eyes flashed the familiar gold, and then he realized too late that though he could not hear himself, Arthur_ could _._  

 _The king whipped around, cerulean eyes wide and startled, hand instinctively reaching for the pommel of his sword. Merlin could not stop even if he wanted to—Arthur was in danger. The look of confusion and then betrayal would have to be addressed later, after the crushing_ _boulder's_ _path had been altered._  

 _A huge red stone passed between them, shaking the earth as it rolled, missing the both of them by a hairsbreadth. By the time the cloud of dust had settled after it, Arthur had scrambled to his feet on the steep, unstable incline, sword drawn. Merlin had already fallen unconscious, blood streaming from the place a sharp stone had struck him from behind._  

* * *

 

"Arthur," Merlin complained for the umpteenth time, "there's nothing out here. Honestly, I would know. I come out here herb-picking on a daily basis." 

"Shut up, _Mer_ lin," Arthur retorted, adjusting his crossbow. "If you knew anything about tracking, you'd see those hart tracks and know that a whole flock of them came this way." 

"If you knew anything," Merlin muttered under his breath, "you'd know it's a _herd,_ not a _flock,_ you clotpole." 

"What was that?" 

"I said, it's a _herd,_ Sire." 

Arthur rolled his eyes, sidestepping around a tree. "You know, perhaps you're right, _Mer_ lin. There is nothing here - because _your tramping and complaining_ has scared off all the game!" 

"Or maybe they've been able to smell your socks from here!" Merlin retorted irritably. Anything Arthur might have said in heated response was cut off by a short, derisive bark as Merlin tripped over an upraised root. He sprawled forward on the ground, hunting gear clattering around him. At least he hadn't had to wear the heavy pack as usual, just a small one filled with necessary items. He had even forgone his jacket and signature neckerchief.

It was too hot to go hunting. Arthur had only wanted to get out of the stuffy castle to escape a rather rude visiting noble. Merlin had not yet had the chance to meet the man, but he was quite certain that it was even ruder of King Arthur to simply waltz out of the castle with his manservant in tow. They had been walking for several hours without having caught anything. 

And it was no wonder. 

It was simply too _hot_ to hunt. 

Merlin frowned, recognizing the trees around him. He'd come out this way several times before, this place where the thick trees suddenly ended on one side. "Arthur, there's not going to be anything out here. There's a -" 

"I _heard_ you the first seven times, _Mer_ lin!" Arthur hissed. "Shut _up_ already." 

"But there's a—“ 

" _Merlin."_  

Merlin clamped his lips shut, fuming silently. _Fine, then. Let the prat find out on his own, see if I care. And if he isn't looking where he's going, his loss,_ he thought bitterly. Of course, he didn't mean it. 

And he didn't expect Arthur to _not look where he was going._  

With his head to one side as he crept silently through the underbrush, Arthur was keeping an eye out for any animals that he could shoot. At this point it didn't matter to him so long as he didn't go back empty-handed. Guinevere would see through him either way, but he hoped that the lord would believe he had gone to hunt a buck for their dinner.  

"Arthur!" 

He nearly loosed a bolt when he felt hands on his shoulders, jerking him back. The king, for an instant, thought that a bandit had snuck up on him, but then with a sharp glance behind he recognized the unruly black curls of his manservant. 

" _Mer_ lin, I've had it!" he uttered crossly. "You've been nothing but a nuisance today!" Arthur jerked himself free from Merlin's pulling, stepping away. Merlin's eyes widened in terror, hands reaching for him again, and then suddenly Arthur knew why. 

He was standing on the edge of a steep slope. To his right the trees simply seemed to disappear, revealing the canopy of the forest some long yards below them like a rolling blanket of grass in a field. Some trees clung still to the drop, roots futilely clawing the earth as their straggling trunks twisted and browned with malnourishment. The ground was weakened from the heavy rains followed by the days of baking sun. It crumbled like clay beneath his feet, cracking as ominously as thin ice, and Merlin—the idiot—lunged for his king and missed. They both fell, wordless cries spilling from their lips.

Arthur tucked and rolled, hoping his manservant had enough sense to do the same, and after a moment came to a stop. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and his right eye stung. The young king pressed the heel of his palm to the wound he could feel just over his eyebrow, cursing loudly. The dirt caked in his mail shirt would take hours to clean. 

The red dust was still settling, and several pieces of earth were still sliding and rolling down the incline. He squinted, searching for his companion. "Merlin!" 

There was a response, but not one that Arthur expected. A deep, husky voice was chanting unfamiliar words, and Arthur knew enough of it that he could recognize it as magical. Hand groping for his sword, he immediately forgot his wound and whipped around. 

He was, much to his utter shock, met with the sight of Merlin, hand outstretched, eyes glowing molten gold beneath his creased brow. Arthur was so affected by it that he did not notice the bright red streak coursing down his manservant's jawline and neck, nor the blood running into his own eye.  

Only Merlin and his magic. 

He barely registered the huge stone, a large piece of the landing upon which they had been standing only moments before, that rushed between them. It rumbled as it passed, kicking up plumes of dust and flecks of smaller pebbles in its wake.  

Arthur struggled to his feet, drawing _Excalibur_ from its sheath with a resounding ring. But when the dust settled and he was able to see, Merlin was lying prostrate on the ground, a puddle of blood soaking into the clay beneath his head.  

He hesitated, clearly distressed. 

Then he belted his sword and carefully shuffled over to his unconscious manservant. After making sure he was indeed unaware, Arthur sat back on his heel and nibbled his thumb that tasted of gritty clay.  

He knew what he'd seen. 

Merlin had magic. But why? It made no sense, none at all! 

Maybe it had been a hallucination, a trick of the light. Merlin had been reaching out to Arthur, trying to say something—garbled—with a throat clogged with dust, the sun reflecting brightly in his eyes.  

But not even Arthur was so dense that he could make himself believe something so preposterous, no matter what people thought of him. The only dense one was Merlin, who apparently had such confidence to practice magic where it was banned, all while serving the _king_ of the realm. 

Arthur pressed a fist to his lips, stifling his despair. _Why, Merlin? Who has done this to you?_  

But there was nothing for it. Whatever Merlin's reason for taking up the evil practice, he would have to face the consequences. No one can _force_ another to do magic. Merlin had done it of his own choice. 

With that thought, Arthur allowed his aching heart to harden against his long-time friend. He would do what was right. He would not let Merlin become like Morgana, to usurp his throne and to destroy Camelot. It was his duty to stop such things, no matter how much it hurt him. 

Nevertheless, Arthur was a fair man. 

After some careful maneuvering, Arthur managed to get Merlin into a position where he could drag the lanky body back up the crumbling wall to safety. It was not too far up. 

King Arthur would give Merlin of Ealdor a fair trial, just as he would anyone else accused of witchcraft. If Merlin confessed, then it would go easily, more smoothly. If he did not, then Arthur would still have to rely on his own judgment as he sentenced his once precious brother to death. 

Banishment would not— _could not—_ do. This was more than just a betrayal of love—It was the ultimate betrayal. Magic was dangerous, and so long as Merlin had it he was as well. If he were banished he could easily join Morgana's forces. 

And then a cold thought struck him, and he nearly broke down with its coming. 

 _Has Merlin already joined forces with Morgana? Have they been in league all this time? How long? Could Merlin have been the one to introduce Morgana to magic? No, that was Morgause, was it not? But she is dead now, so it could be...Oh, Merlin, you traitorous dog!_  

At long last Arthur managed to haul them both to the top of the cliff, and still a bit farther to escape the crumbling edge. Perhaps he should have left Merlin there, though the thought hadn't crossed his mind until after he'd rescued him. If he had done that, then he could go back to Camelot alone and claim that the fall had killed his manservant, thus rendering the trial unnecessary. No one would have to know that Merlin was a sorcerer, and his reputation as the kindly, goofy King’s servant and Physician’s apprentice would have remained intact.

But no matter. 

Camelot was only an hour or two's walk from there. More, though, since it was likely Arthur would have to carry the servant. He felt quite sick, and refused to look at Merlin for fear he would forget that evil look he had seen, that he would pretend it had been a dream and never again mention it. That could prove fatal, Merlin's innocent visage. 

 _Curse him,_ Arthur thought bitterly, striving for the pack that was still shouldered on Merlin's back. He worked the gangly arms through the straps—none too gently—and then dug through the pouch, biting his lip. There were several coils of rope that he had intended to use for rabbit traps, but there was a much greater need for them now. 

Merlin stirred a bit as Arthur unwound the rope, judging the length he'd need. Before he could gather his wits about him, Arthur grasped his thin wrists and yanked them behind his back, wrapping the rough hemp rope around them tightly. He knew it would do no good against magic, but a prisoner was a prisoner. 

At last Merlin's eyes fluttered open, confusion and pain evident in them. Arthur made a strong-willed point of not looking in the general direction of his face. As long as he did not look, made no eye contact, then he would be safe from Merlin's spell.  

"Get up, sorcerer," Arthur muttered, pushing himself onto his feet. 

Merlin moaned, but didn't seem to hear him. He retched dryly a few times, but nothing came up. He groaned miserably, and tried to bring his hands to his sides, but they were bound so tightly that the cords bit into his porcelain skin. 

The king bent and jerked him up onto his knees, and Merlin gasped in pain and surprise. He swayed dangerously and would have fallen had Arthur not held him. 

"Get up," he reiterated. 

Merlin winced as he tried to turn his head, then gave up. He asked hoarsely, "Where's Arthur?"  

Arthur scowled in response, and then his frown deepened when he saw the nasty wound on the back of Merlin's head, just behind his ear. It didn't look to be bleeding anymore, but it certainly answered to the sorcerer's confusion. 

He dragged Merlin closer to a tree and propped him up against it. The sorcerer leaned heavily on his chest, eyes squeezed shut as though he were battling a bout of vertigo. With his wound, Arthur supposed he was, and resolved to wait—albeit impatiently—for it to end. After a moment, the king made Merlin stand on his own clumsy feet, using the tree for support. 

Merlin forced his eyes open and spied that it _was_ Arthur who was handling him. "Arthur—You're bleeding." 

Arthur didn't look at him, and set his jaw firmly. "You're under arrest," he muttered darkly. 

"What? I can't hear you." 

Heaving a sigh and scowling more deeply, Arthur repeated his words in a louder and more regal voice. 

For a moment Merlin was silent, and Arthur assumed he was digesting this information. "I can't hear you," he said softly. Then he inhaled sharply and said again in a pitching voice, "I can't hear you! I can't hear anything!" 

Merlin began to struggle with his bonds, eyes wide and fearful. His breaths came in short, rasping bursts as he panicked. He paled and slid down the gritty trunk a little, and Arthur automatically reached out to steady him. Just as quickly, though, he removed his hand, glowering at the leaves beneath his feet. 

At long last Merlin seemed to get his bearings and calmed, though he still gasped a bit. "You've taken me prisoner," he said weakly. "You've seen me using magic." 

Arthur nodded curtly, eyes still resolutely averted. 

"Only for you, Arthur. It's only ever been for you." 

The king chuffed, brow furrowing angrily. He didn't bother to respond, for if Merlin was indeed speaking the truth and could no longer hear then it would be a waste of breath on Arthur's part. It was a good thing Merlin, unlike most other peasants from small villages, could read. It would be more difficult for Arthur to convince anyone if Merlin could not stand trial.

But for the moment, it was most important that Arthur and Merlin get back to Camelot. As Merlin continued to babble about his reasons for using magic, Arthur ignored him and gripped his arm, forcing him to stumble ahead of his king. The sorcerer fell silent, breathing raggedly, but was compliant.

After just a few steps, however, Merlin pitched forward, saved only by Arthur’s tight grip. Merlin hung limply, head lolling, and when the king determined that he was once again unconscious he let him drop. Arthur heaved a sigh. They would never get back to Camelot at this rate.

He reexamined his choices.

Leave Merlin; carry Merlin; force awake Merlin; wait for Merlin to wake on his own.

The latter was very undesirable, as was the second. Arthur couldn’t _leave_ Merlin because he would wake up, magic himself out of his restraints, and escape. That left little to debate.

With a heavy, suffering sigh, Arthur knelt beside the sorcerer and maneuvered him into a sitting position. It was the last time he would ever show Merlin such a kindness; although the death sentence could be construed as a kindness in itself—the old Merlin, the Merlin that hadn’t practiced magic, the _good_ Merlin, wouldn’t have wanted Arthur to put himself nor his kingdom in danger.

It was for the good of all that this magic Merlin disappeared from the world.

He hefted the lanky man onto his shoulder with a quiet grunt of effort, then stood slowly so as not to cramp his muscles. Once Merlin came to he would put him back on his feet again. He would drag the bastard Merlin back to Camelot if necessary.

“Of course,” he muttered darkly. His hand went to his pommel even as he lowered Merlin back to the ground and turned toward the sound.

A tall, beefy man emerged from the trees. He had no weapon, as far as Arthur could see, so he refrained from drawing his and took note of the man’s attire: a travel-worn gray cloak clasped at the throat, leather jerkin and gauntlets, deerskin boots, and cotton breeches with a tear in the right knee. The man’s salt and pepper beard obscured his lips and chin beneath a hawk nose, and his beady black eyes glinted cunningly in the sunlight.

“Announce yourself,” Arthur commanded, “in the name of the King.”

“Who I am is of no import to you, Sir,” said the man smugly. “Remove your sword and lay it aside, as well as any other weapons you have on your person.”

“How dare you,” Arthur said lowly, in no mood to deal with any apprehenders. “Stand down, stranger, or I shall have you hunted by the Knights of Camelot and arrested. I have here now a prisoner I must transport back, so leave me to my mission.”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” the man said. “For I am a bandit, and ‘tis _my_ mission, Sir, to kidnap and ransom you.”

“Only you?” Arthur asked, simultaneously searching with his buzzing senses for the others that were sure to be nearby.

“No,” he replied. “Whilst we have conversed, my men have surrounded you and your prisoner.”

The king’s eyes instantly narrowed. “I would cast my gauntlet at your feet were you an honorable man,” he growled.

“A wise refrain,” acknowledged the bandit leader, clearly amused. “Will you lay down your sword, or will you fight? My men far outnumber you, and I have archers positioned.”

“How did you happen across me?” Arthur asked, changing the subject.

“The rockslide alerted us,” he answered. “We thought perhaps it was a stray from the herd of deer we’d tracked, and so hoped to find a bit of extra game. Instead we find you and this one.” He gestured to Merlin, who was sprawled unconscious at the king’s feet.

“You don’t speak like a bandit,” Arthur said, cocking his head slightly at a shuffling sound in the trees behind him. “Not like any bandit I’ve had the displeasure of meeting, anyway.”

“I was not always a bandit,” the man replied calmly. “Indeed, no man is raised into the profession, if you will. Now, enough talk. Lay down your weapons.”

“What will you do with me?” Arthur demanded, tightening his grip. “Where will you take me? My prisoner?”

“To our camp. And I’ve told you already: to ransom you. As for your prisoner, I’m sure the king would pay for his release as well.”

“You’ll have no luck there,” Arthur smirked. “The king is away from the city.”

“Oh?” Suddenly the bandit laughed. “Then all the more gold we’ll get, fellows! Rather than ‘Sir,’ I should be calling you ‘Sire!’ How lucky.”

Arthur cursed himself inwardly. Hadn’t his late father taught him more tact than that? He wondered whether the bandit leader had exaggerated the prowess of his numbers, or if the archers existed. He was aware of at least two men behind him, but there could be more.

Growling shortly, Arthur unbuckled his sword belt and threw it to the ground at the man’s feet, then bent and unsheathed his boot knife. His crossbow, he realized, he’d lost during the fall. No matter—it was a fickle thing, easily replaced.

“I’ll want them back when I’m ransomed,” he growled.

“Peace!” laughed the bandit, motioning his men forward. “You shall have it once it’s all said and done. Tell me, who is this prisoner? And why have you gone after him alone?”

Arthur scowled as a group of men, no less than fifteen, sauntered out of the trees. Some procured a length of rope and bound his arms tightly behind him, limiting his movement. He did not resist, though, knowing that to do so would bring consequences, and none of them good.

“He is a sorcerer,” he said, refusing to look even as the bandits hefted Merlin’s long body up between them. “I did not come here alone searching for him. He was with me, and has been with me for quite some years. He is—was—my manservant.”

“And you did not suspect him?” inquired the leader, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

The king shook his head once, jaw clenched.

“Hmm. Come, walk and talk with me, King Arthur.”

Arthur did as he was told with as much dignity as he could muster being captured by bandits and being covered in muddy clay. They walked beside one another, though the leader was a step or two in front as he was, for all intents and purposes, in charge of the king.

“So you, King Arthur, as your father was before you, are distrusting of magic?”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “Magic is evil, corrupting.”

“Then you are well acclimated to seeing its purposes and wielders,” the leader said lightly. “You know the signs.”

“I do,” sniffed Arthur haughtily, taking offense at the man’s tone. He was prodding the king in a roundabout, snake-like way, trying to get at his weaknesses. Arthur wouldn’t have it. “But even a king cannot see everything at once.”

“No, you’d need magic for such an eye.”

Arthur shot a sharp glare at his captor, who seemed entirely unperturbed and even amused by it. Then he turned forward and refused to look anywhere except where he was going. His failure to keep track of his surroundings was what got him into this awful situation to begin with, but now there was little for it.

He wasn’t going to escape even if he could. It was simpler to just wait for his knights, and then with them to return Merlin to Camelot for trial. The more witnesses, the stronger the case, as far as Arthur was concerned.

There was still the matter of Merlin’s many friends, but if Merlin confessed, perhaps even performed an evil deed, then it would convince them. All in due time, though. First they had to wait for their ransom, which could take anywhere from a day to a month.

Honestly, the only upside Arthur could find was that he would not have to parley with Lord Numénor.

The troupe marched on in heavy silence.

Soon enough Arthur began to recognize his surroundings. He knew that somewhere up ahead was a small abandoned hut, one that had remained empty after the widow that had occupied it passed away some many years before. It was well out of the way of the roads and hidden behind a cluster of trees that grew along a dry creek bed.

Arthur spotted it ahead.

The wooden walls with their boarded up windows and shoddily-shingled roof sagged sadly, choked by wispy strands of ivy and permanently shaded by tall trees. The stone chimney had collapsed, leaving the odd rock decorating the roof and the others to be swallowed up by the thick underbrush that clawed at the base of the home. A path had been worn from the doorway to an opening in the trees, toward which the bandits were headed.

A horse-drawn cage of thick iron bars loomed ominously. Inside of it were several stacked, unmoving bodies—deer. Glassy brown eyes stared at Arthur as they approached. Congealed crimson blood stained the wooden floor of the cage.

“Here’s where you’ll be staying,” said the leader, gesturing to it. “We’ll be moving the deer, of course, to make room for you and your sorcerer. Dinner will be served later.”

As he had spoken, six of his men had unlocked the cage and opened the rusty door, hinges squealing. The deer were removed with a little difficulty as their gangly limbs were stiff and unwieldy with death. Blood crusted their short fur, and swarms of black flies and gnats hovered over the meat to feast and lay their eggs. The bandits shooed them away, only for the insects to converge again instantly.

Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste at the filth that had been left behind, but obeyed his order to get inside. The leader himself helped him to step up into the carriage, reminding the king to duck his head so as not to hit it. He had to stoop low inside, bending nearly double. The cage was wide but short.

He turned back. “Am I to remain bound even in here? Are you worried I may escape should I have use of my hands?”

The nameless leader regarded him almost in surprise. “Ah, of course, Sire,” he said, drawing his knife from his belt. “Forgive me. I was not thinking.” He reached inside and swiftly cut the cords that bound Arthur’s hands behind his back, then retreated.

Arthur resisted the urge to rub his sore wrists, and merely nodded to him in short thanks. He spared a glance to the bandits who had carried Merlin, and found that they were unbinding him as well. They moved his hands before him and clasped each wrist in an iron manacle, the insides of which were inscribed with magic-restraining runes. A chain connecting the manacles left enough length that Merlin could use his hands relatively freely.

As the cruel devices were locked, Merlin stirred in discomfort.

The bandits made quick work of hauling him up and pushing him into the cage with Arthur, then slamming the door shut behind him and locking that, too. Merlin was struggling to wake up, wringing his hands at the elevating itchiness.

Finally, his eyes slivered open, shining with pain. Arthur quickly looked away. Now was not the time to lose resolve.

Merlin first seemed to focus on the smell of blood, which wakened him further. He looked down and found his hands and shirt smeared with the stuff, and he quickly pushed himself into a sitting position. Shoving off the nauseating effect that resulted, he examined himself for wounds and found only the one on the back of his head. Merlin was still unable to hear, which worried him greatly, but there was nothing to do for it.

A blur of color to his left caught his attention, and Merlin glanced over to see that a rider was leaving the camp in a hurry. The other bandits were hanging the deer up, preparing to bleed and then skin them. None of them were paying any attention to him—or to Arthur, whom Merlin had just noticed in the opposite corner. The king was not looking at him, either.

Merlin examined the bars of the cage. Iron. Resilient to magic, but not impossible to manipulate. He stared intently at the lock on the door, mentally going over the words he would need. Then he whispered it as softly as he could—He hoped it was softly; he still couldn’t hear.

What resulted was not the door springing open, as he had intended and expected, but a white-hot, excruciating pain that tore through his body. He screamed and recoiled, but he could not escape it. It was caused by the manacles on his wrist, he realized.

He gasped painfully, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his torso. He slowly looked up to see the bandits watching him, some obviously laughing. Magic restraints.

Merlin turned his gaze to Arthur, but if the king had reacted at all to Merlin’s plight he did not show it, did not even move.

 _One cannot hate that which makes it whole,_ Kilgharrah had once told him.

Wrong. Arthur definitely hated him.

And though it was completely useless to do so, Merlin began to ramble about his magic, hoping that perhaps Arthur would listen, that even a tiny seedling of doubt would be planted in his mind about the evils of magic. Arthur tuned him out in much the same way he had tuned out his tutor’s lectures when he was a boy. If he had heeded Merlin’s words, he would have learned that Merlin had been born with magic; that his father was Balinor, the last Dragonlord, and so Merlin had inherited the abilities upon the man’s death; that the Druidic prophecy spoke of him, Emrys, and Arthur, the Once and Future King; that Merlin had only ever done magic to protect him. But Merlin went unheard.

It was several hours later, when the sun had begun to sink below the treetops, that the deer had finally been cooked into a stew. Arthur had half hoped that some patrol of knights might spot the smoke rising from the fire in the hut, but if they had they had not come to investigate. The messenger had returned from Camelot by then as well, horse tired out and sweating rivulets. The day was still almost unbearably hot.

An insufficient serving of the stew had been delivered to Arthur and Merlin, who sat and ate silently. The rowdy bandits ate in the shade across the clearing, telling raucous jokes and guffawing loudly. Arthur shook his head at their conduct; one would think they were in a tavern, the way they behaved. And they might have well as been, considering the copious amounts of ale they consumed with their evening meal.

The leader, of course, was most well-behaved. He ate with his men and smiled when he found something humorous, but otherwise was quiet. Once he had finished his dinner he set his tin plate aside and left the group to themselves. The man made his way to the cage.

“I trust you’ve found yourselves suitably accommodated?” he asked politely.

Arthur scowled. Merlin looked up and tried to figure out what was being said.

“Your kingdom should come for the exchange sometime tomorrow,” he continued, oblivious to the king’s glare. “Perhaps in the afternoon. Although, since you _are_ the king, they may set out earlier with the ransom.”

“They may not come at all,” Arthur muttered, knowing full well that he wouldn’t believe it.

“In that case, you’ll be dead, Sire,” he answered dryly, utterly unconcerned with the idea that the king would be abandoned. His cunning eyes slid to the powerless Merlin, who was struggling to understand the conversation. “What will you do with him?”

“I will give him a fair hearing in the court of Camelot, and he will be condemned to death,” Arthur said surely.

The leader raised an eyebrow. “Why give him a trial if his fate is already decided?”

“I am a fair man.”

“How so?”

Arthur scoffed as though it were obvious. “I am giving the sorcerer a trial.”

“That is fair,” the man mused. “But he is already condemned, so there is no point in being fair. Why journey far down the bank to the bridge when you can cross the river with a boat?”

The king snorted.

“How will he die?” the leader asked, changing the subject. It was apparent that Arthur would stubbornly say no more on the other.

“Same as all the other sorcerers,” Arthur muttered. “He will burn on the pyre.”

The thief nodded thoughtfully. “It seems to me that the punishment does not fit the crime.”

Arthur looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

The other smiled politely. “Evil deeds must be punished. A life for a life, if you will. If one man chops off the ear of another unjustly, so that same man must forfeit an ear of his own. Death by fire, though painful, is merely to purge the vileness that ravages their bodies. It is to purify, not to punish.”

“And just what would you suggest?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Make him suffer as you and many others have suffered under his evil hands,” he replied simply.

Arthur snorted. “And what is it to you that my former manservant receives penance?”

“My family was killed by magic.”

“I am sorry,” the king said sincerely. “But still, it was not this sorcerer who killed them, was it?”

“No,” admitted the man, “but the same vile blood runs through his veins.” He shot a glare of such hatred toward Merlin that the warlock recoiled slightly.

Arthur snorted softly. “Then do as you must.”

The bandit leader smiled, showing his stained teeth. “You are very kind, Sire.”

He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, which swung open with an awful grating noise that drew the attention of the men by the trees. They turned and watched with interest as their leader reached inside and forced the sorcerer to exit the cell. The king indifferently turned his head and studied the wall of the hut.

Merlin looked bewildered and worried, even more so when his captor locked Arthur inside, away from him. Before he could protest, he was shoved harshly toward the center of the clearing. He landed hard on his elbows, and quickly pushed himself back up.

“Men!” called the leader. “This sorcerer needs punishing for his evil deeds!”

At once a gleam entered their eyes; it was a look of bloodlust. They stood up, some swaying drunkenly, and made their way over. Merlin seemed to sense their approach, and spun around. He clambered to his feet, drawing himself to his full height and glaring at them.

“Stay back!” he commanded, extending a hand toward them.

They only laughed and proceeded. Merlin gave way, stepping backwards. The leader behind him only shoved him forward again, and the young sorcerer crashed back to the ground. Then the twelve bandits had reached him, surrounded him.

Merlin stayed down, jaw set defiantly despite the painful throbbing of his headache. Arthur looked elsewhere.

The bandit leader struck first, lashing out with his boot and making contact. Merlin grunted and curled in on his left side. When it became obvious that he was not going to fight back, one of the bandits, a muscular man with a balding head, reached down and grasped the sorcerer’s dark, clay-slicked locks. He jerked upwards, rearing Merlin’s head and forcing him up to his knees. The warlock held his arms in a shielding position, but to no avail.

Another man grabbed his arms and forced him into a standing position, then drove his fist into Merlin’s solar plexus. The air whooshed out of his lungs, but he was given no chance to recover. The others took to using their fists and feet to hit, kick, and push him within the circle.

When Merlin fell, he was barraged still. Hard kicks to his back, legs, ribs, and stomach were aimed, and though he tried to curl into as tight a ball as he could he was still overwhelmingly unprotected.

He wheezed and cried out with each strike, thoroughly disoriented.

The men laughed as though they were playing a game, simply passing a ball amongst each other.

At last the leader appeared to grow bored, and stepped out of the circle. He ambled slowly to the fire, fishing a wooden pipe from his pocket. Though the inferior men had stopped beating him, they didn’t seem to be ending their fun soon.

The same man who had pulled Merlin’s hair a few moments before knelt beside the trembling tangle of limbs. He grabbed Merlin’s chin in his hand and turned his face toward him. Merlin panted, struggling to breathe properly, but glared nevertheless.

“He’s a pretty face,” he slurred gruffly. “I’d’ve liked it if you were a woman. Haven’t had a woman in a long while now, eh.”

Another scoffed. “He doesn’t _need_ to be a woman for us to enjoy ‘im,” he said conspiratorially.

Several of the men chuckled at that, but no one protested.

Merlin finally jerked his chin from the burly man’s hand, still glowering.

The men laughed at that, amused that the sorcerer was a fiery one.

“We’ll have to fix that,” sneered one. He dropped to his knees and grasped Merlin’s ankle, pulling him across the grass towards him. Merlin grunted and kicked out with his other foot, but it was easily blocked.

Merlin began to flail his limbs, but several other men stepped in and held him down. The chain was pulled taut beneath him, iron links digging painfully into his sternum. Finally it seemed to dawn on the lanky young man what was happening.

“No!” he gasped out. “Don’t—please.”

“Please, he says.”

“Eh! Please _him_ we won’t, but _us_ we will.”

Merlin cried out as he was forcefully flipped onto his stomach, still squirming and fighting for freedom. Strong, hurtful hands held him down, pushing and pulling. Suddenly his trousers were sliding down his pale legs, the grass brushing against his bare skin. Merlin’s face flared hot, and humiliated tears filled his bruised eyes.

“Please!” he gasped. “Please, don’t! Ar—Arthur!”

He was steadfastly ignored.

His boots were pulled off in their quest to remove his trousers, they were thrown away out of the circle. The burly man knelt at Merlin’s head and once more twisted his head up. Another man pulled his hardening shaft out and positioned himself at Merlin’s rear. Other men, their cheeks reddened by drink and lust, were caressing themselves, eagerly awaiting their turns.

Merlin screamed as he was painfully penetrated without warning. He could feel himself tear, felt the hot blood trickling down his thighs. Then he was choking, unable to breathe. His eyes snapped open in shock, teeth automatically clamping down.

The burly man dug his fingers into the hinges of Merlin’s jaw, forcing his mouth open again. He continued thrusting in and out, ramming his head into the back of Merlin’s throat. Merlin tried to push him away, to pull himself free, but he was caught fast. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

He gasped for air when at last the offending genital was gone, coughing and crying out as he was stabbed repeatedly from behind, the force jolting through his body. And then that disappeared, too.

But only for a moment—the bandits were trading off, giving another man a turn.

Merlin whimpered and tried to twist away, but to no avail.

He was granted no mercy, and he gasped agonizingly as there was the same piercing pain at his backside. A choked sob escaped him, but even that was cut off as another foul-tasting cock was inserted into his mouth. Both men rocked their hips violently, grunting like pigs.

After what felt like an eternity, they pulled out, and Merlin cried pathetically, wheezing desperately. The respite was brief. Two men, even harder than the first two pairs, took their places.

“Please—“ Merlin tried, but the word ended in a high-pitched yelp.

The man stationed in front of him easily overpowered him, forcing his jaw apart and pushing his way in.

Arthur, despite trying to tune out the awful sounds, could not help but to feel sick. Certainly it was punishment enough for any crime—more than enough. But the king could not very well stop them now. They wouldn’t listen to him even if he’d tried. And he couldn’t bring himself to show weakness, especially not to the sorcerer. Merlin would exploit it, and Arthur’s resolve would break.

That could not happen.

Arthur simply had no choice.

So he continued to ignore the pitiful cries and whimpers from his ex-manservant, and the pig-like grunting and vile guffawing from the bandits, and the niggling sense of doubt and guilt at the edges of his mind.

By the time the men had finished taking turns with Merlin’s ravaged body, the moon was rising in the starry sky. Arthur estimated that it was nearly midnight. The air was chill against his skin, and he crossed his arms over himself in an attempt to conserve warmth.

He still refused to move his gaze from the stars even as the cage was unlocked and Merlin was pushed inside. His trousers and boots were tossed in after him, and the cell was locked once more. Most of the men had retired for the night, some having gone into the abandoned hut and others to lay beside the fire. Four men remained awake—the night watch.

Merlin, shivering and crying quietly, painstakingly dragged his trousers closer to him, as though they were a great burden. Pinching his lips together to stifle his cries, he pushed one leg through, and then the other. It took a great deal of maneuvering to get them up around his waist, even without bothering with the drawstrings. His boots he left where they lay.

Exhausted from his ordeal, Merlin curled up, his back to his king. He felt disgusting, covered with a thick layer of filth that would never wash away. He wanted nothing more than to fade away forever. He wished he’d never come to Camelot, never met Arthur, never learned of his Destiny.

With that, he felt into a restless sleep, looking haggard and broken with the bruises that decorated his pale face.

Arthur didn’t sleep.

* * *

 

Early the next morning, the bandit’s leader rode out on the horse to ensure that the knights of Camelot found the trail. He took no one with him, commanding instead that his followers protect the camp and its prisoners. The one left in charge, a man as bulky as Sir Percival but nearly two heads shorter, assured him that he would carry out the orders to the best of his abilities.

Arthur snorted as the dishonorable bandit returned to his drinking once his master was gone. The other men also seemed unperturbed and unwary, something Arthur dearly hoped would come to bite them. He was quite certain that his knights weren’t going to simply pay the ransom.

He still resisted the compulsion to glance at Merlin. As far as the king was aware, his traitorous manservant hadn’t moved throughout the night, but moaned at intervals as though unable to hold back his pain. Arthur pitied him his abuse from the previous night, but did not dare to console him or to speak to him. A sorcerer was a sorcerer, and punishment was inevitable.

But still, perhaps what he had suffered was too much.

Merlin would be treated for his injuries upon return to Camelot, and kept relatively comfortable until his hearing. Then, once his fate was decided, it would be over with quickly. He would not make his former friend dwell on his own execution. Arthur considered the pyre, considered the awful screams he’d always heard. A hanging would be much quicker, but would it salvage Merlin’s soul? Did not the fire purify the spirits of the damned, erase their names from the Devil’s book?

Arthur was no longer sure of himself. He longed to ask someone’s advice, but the one to whom he usually went was Merlin. The king certainly was not going to ask his wife, nor his physician. He wasn’t cruel.

Broken from his thoughts by the approach of a trio of unhygienic bandits, Arthur looked up and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“G’morning, Sire,” said one courteously.

Arthur did not grace him with a response.

“Begging your pardon,” said another, removing a rusty key from his belt, “but we’ll be taking your sorcerer here for a few minutes.”

The king straightened imperiously. “No, you’ll not.”

Their smiles faded slightly, and their eyes hardened. “And why not?”

“This man has suffered enough punishment,” Arthur said. “He will return with me to Camelot to stand trial, harmed no more than he already is. I forbid you to take him.”

“Ah, we’re not going to punish ‘im,” said one, sharing a look with the man beside him. He grinned, scratching his scruffy neck. “Just a bit of fun, is all.”

“Fun,” Arthur repeated scathingly. “And did your leader not say to _protect_ the prisoners?”

“Yes, yes,” they agreed, heads bobbing.

“But he never said nothing about playing a few games with ‘em!”

Arthur’s lip curled in disgust. “You’ll not touch the sorcerer,” he said. “As your king, _I forbid you_.”

“You’re in no position to command us, _Sire_ ,” retorted one. He shoved the key into the lock and twisted it, then yanked the door open.

Arthur jumped to his feet as he did so, careful to keep his head and shoulders stooped so as not to hit it on the low ceiling of the cage. He stepped forward and stomped crushingly on the bandit’s hand as he reached for Merlin’s leg.

The bandit howled, snatching his hand and retreating a few steps. The other two glared, and across the clearing more rogues looked on with interest.

“Do not try my patience nor my power,” Arthur said lowly, sapphire eyes burning with contained fury. “Obey me your king, and your master who has left, and lock the door. Leave us be until he returns with my knights.” He grasped an iron bar and swung the squealing door shut again.

The trio shared a glance amongst themselves, seeming to silently and mutually agree on some unspoken decision. Arthur hadn’t moved an inch, not even to release the bar, but the men stormed him anyway. One wrenched the door out of Arthur’s grip, nearly sending him sprawling out with the force of it. Another grasped the king as he regained his footing, then shoved him backwards into the cage. As he did this, the last bandit reached in and jerked Merlin outside. The first slammed shut the cage and locked it, trapping an enraged king within.

Merlin, startled to consciousness by the abrupt change in position, cried out, hands blindly clutching towards the vice-like grip on his ankle. Just as suddenly, though, he struck the ground heavily with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him.

He was dragged a little distance away from the cage, his shirt hitching up to reveal the scores of scrapes and bruises on his torso. Coming to his senses, Merlin struggled, twisting and flailing. He kicked at his captor, but only received a well-placed boot to his ribs for his troubles. At last he was dropped, and Merlin tried to scramble away, clawing desperately at the grass.

In his deafness he could not hear Arthur’s outraged shouts, his commands to release the sorcerer. Nor did he hear the bandits’ commands to cease his fighting lest they hurt him.

Merlin was grabbed once more and flipped onto his back. Thick, strong fingers wrapped around his throat and pressed down, stilling him momentarily. He wheezed, eyes squeezed shut in terror, unwilling to face another round of that awful abuse.

The instant he felt the tip of a cold steel blade on his cheek, Merlin’s spirit renewed. He kicked and threw blind punches, trying to twist out of the cruel grip that suffocated him. Orders that he could not hear were shouted at him, and the knife tip embedded itself deeper in the soft flesh of his cheek.

“Quit your thrashing!” shouted the bandit who strangled him, spittle flying from his lips. He dared to press the knife harder, drawing a rivulet of red blood.

A whining keen came from Merlin, but he only fought more wildly.

Arthur continued to scream in the background, addressing the men by the fire, demanding that they step in and stop their comrades. One bandit had stood uncertainly, looking on as the trio tormented the sorcerer.

The bandit holding the knife at last lost his patience and carried out his threats. He slashed upwards with the knife, slicing directly through Merlin’s right eye, and then performed the action again on the other. Merlin fell silent and limp in shock, breath hitching in his chest. In that second hot red blood welled up from the three-inch long gashes, as though they had been delayed by Merlin’s utter incomprehension.

An unearthly howl erupted from Merlin’s lips, his back arching as his hands flew up to his face to stifle the fire. The bandit dropped his knife and released him, stumbling back. The other two looked just as shocked.

“ _My eyes_!” Merlin wailed, writhing. His hands hovered over his bloodied, ruined face, fingers clawed in agony. The chain tangled as he rolled about screaming, desperately trying to find some position that would relieve him. Merlin’s voice cracked as he sobbed, blood streaking his cheeks in place of tears.

Arthur had fallen silent at Merlin’s first horrifying scream, head whipping around in alarm. He blanched when he saw what the bandits had done. A strange brew of emotions roiled in his belly, indiscernible from one another.

At last the bandits appeared to realize their folly and that they had to do something.

Merlin’s screaming tapered off into wretched moans, and his movements had become jerky and sluggish. He was close to unconsciousness.

One bandit fumbled for the key on his belt, looking at his two accomplices meaningfully. They stooped and hefted Merlin up into their arms. The sorcerer did not react but with a higher pitched groan, probably more in pain than in fear or protest.

They hurried him to the cage, trembling for fear of retribution for their mistake. Arthur numbly scooted back to allow room for them to place the sorcerer down, staring at the owner of the wicked blade that had done the deed. The bandits, with gazes averted, hurried away after locking the cell, leaving the king with a deaf and blind magic-user. He didn’t want to look. Not at all.

Just hearing him was softening his hard-earned resolve, the pitiful gasps and moans. The chain rattled across the floor as Merlin moved his hands toward his face, but he didn’t touch. Whether he retained some knowledge from his apprenticeship about infection or it simply hurt too much to do so was unclear.

Arthur swallowed hard.

After the three offenders had run off, one of the other bandits had come to investigate. He dragged his feet as he came, obviously unwilling to get involved. The bearded man stopped a few paces away, looking in at the sorcerer. Seeing his condition, he turned away again and made for the hut.

Arthur, desperate for the distraction, watched him go.

The bandit returned a moment later carrying two large pouches and a handful of stripped linens. These he passed through the bars of the cage, then left.

The king watched as he resumed his place at the fire on the far side of the clearing. His stomach sank as he realized that _he_ was expected to care for the injured sorcerer. He exhaled heavily through his nose as he realized he had no choice. It was either let Merlin die a slow, painful death, or help him until he could be handed off to Gaius at Camelot.

As Arthur had continually claimed, he was a fair man. He was determined that Merlin would have a trial.

He gathered up the cloths and water and moved closer to the sorcerer. Merlin did not notice his approach. _How could he, being like this?_ Arthur thought, shaking his head slightly.

Arthur did his best to tune Merlin out, to dissociate himself from the situation. This was not his friend, not his manservant. Just a random, bloodthirsty sorcerer who would stand trial. He licked his lips and reached out to move the man’s hands to see the extent of the damage.

Merlin did not recognize his touch, flinching violently. “P—Please!” he choked out through a sob.

The king grasped his hands and pushed them down gently, then lightly used his fingertips to tilt Merlin’s face toward the light. At this Merlin seemed to realize that he was being helped, and he calmed considerably.

The damage was not as bad as Arthur had imagined, but it was certainly more than he knew how to help. There was no way Merlin would heal with his sight intact—not without magic. The ragged incisions started at his cheekbones and tore upwards, splitting his flesh and stopping a little below his eyebrows. Blood seeped still from the deeper places like molten iron dripping through cracked stone. The worst of the wounds were concealed by Merlin’s eyelids, which hung in tatters over his weeping eyeballs.

After a moment, Merlin raised his hands and made contact with Arthur’s arm, fingers traveling across the fabric. “Arthur!” he cried. “Arthur!” His shaking hands grasped more tightly.

The blonde man clenched his jaw and shoved Merlin’s hands away. He picked up a length of coarse cotton fabric and doused it with the lukewarm water from one of the skins. Arthur applied it as gingerly as he could, cleansing away the coagulating blood and dirt.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “Arthur. _Arthur_.” His trembling fingers searched for him again, and the king shrugged him off once more.

Merlin lowered his hands and fell silent, breathing through his pain both physical and emotional. He said nothing even as Arthur lifted his head from the wooden planks and began to wrap the bandages around his eyes.

Once the king had finished his ministrations, he moved away, leaving Merlin alone. The sorcerer, registering that his presence was gone, rolled slowly onto his side and curled into a small, miserable ball.

Arthur settled back into his corner, raising his eyes to the sky. An hour had passed since the three bandits had forcefully taken and blinded Merlin. There would be time yet before his knights arrived. It would be wise to get what rest he may, should he be needed to fight.

King Arthur nodded off quickly, exhausted as he was.

* * *

 

He woke with a start only a few hours later, heart fluttering like a panicked bird in his rib cage. Feeling wetness on his face, he quickly swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, taking deep, calming breaths.

Arthur was wrong.

Merlin hadn’t changed, magic or no. He’d had it the moment he arrived in Camelot, he was sure. His reasons for coming where it was illegal was beyond the king, but he’d finally, _finally_ pieced it together.

He’d only ever helped him.

All those falling tree branches, dropped weapons, tripped mercenaries—All those times he’d survived against the odds—The sorcerer in the castle, the one who’d saved Gwen and countless others, probably. When all hope seemed lost, somehow he had always survived, always saved the day without quite remembering how. It had been Merlin.

Always Merlin.

All of Merlin’s disappearances—to the tavern, he was told, but never was there any sighting of his presence there—for hours, days, _weeks_. He always came back, sometimes looking a little worse for wear. Arthur had always chosen to ignore it.

Arthur teased him relentlessly, called him weak. Merlin had only pouted, then laughed, never proved himself. Arthur threw things at him, practically abused him during training. Merlin had only ever taken it in stride, never using magic to protect himself from an off-placed strike with a blunt sword or mace. Arthur put him in the stocks, in the dungeons. Merlin had always taken the punishment, stayed where he was put until allowed free.

Merlin was the same as he’d always been.

It was Arthur who had shrouded his friend in the darkness of magic, the darkness that with Merlin did not exist. Arthur may not have raised his hand, but it was _he_ who had done this.

Shivering dreadfully, the king slowly turned toward Merlin lying near the door of the cage. It had been a dream, surely, all of that. It must have been.

His eyes traversed the huddled figure, observing the red clay—and black blood—that stained clothes, hair, and skin alike; the loosened waistband of his trousers, the drawstrings having been undone; a starkly visible purple bruise on his exposed side, where his tunic rode up; the glint of sunlight against steel—the blood-encrusted manacle that encircled his bony wrist and blocked his natural ability; and underneath the hand that clutched at his matted, dirty locks, the crude, brown-and-red-spotted bandages.

Guilt slammed into him like a runaway horse, leaving him gasping for breath. The world spun so that he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut, but even that did not appease the feeling that he would vomit until he passed out.

When he at last remembered how to breathe, he crawled towards Merlin. He couldn’t move fast enough. Arthur, after only a split second’s hesitation, scooped the younger man into his arms, holding him as tightly as he dared.

Merlin gasped at the sudden movement, hands immediately splaying in a gesture of surrender and pleading. Then he seemed to realize that he was in no danger, and the rigidity in his body disappeared.

Arthur rocked on his knees, looking wretched. He cared not whether anyone saw him behaving so unkingly. He’d made a mistake. A terrible, unforgivable mistake. There was no penance for such a thing.

“I’m so sorry,” he blubbered, tears falling hard and fast from his lashes. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He took a long, shuddering breath, and then continued his senseless apologies.

Merlin could not see nor hear him, but he seemed to understand. He lifted his hands slowly, tentatively touching Arthur’s face, where he felt the tears. “Arthur,” he whispered, voice shot. “Arthur...”

Arthur hunched over Merlin and pulled him closer. He swallowed back sour bile, tucking Merlin’s head beneath his chin as he continued to rock. His eyes remained closed, teardrops sliding relentlessly.

“I’m so sorry…! I’m so sorry…! I’m…”

The king’s eyes, glittering with unshed tears, slid open.

Distant shouting had alerted the camp to a coming battle, and swords were drawn as the bandits spread out across the clearing. A horse galloped closer, neighing madly. It was their own horse, frothing at the mouth with wild eyes, saddle empty. The mare tossed her head, panicking at the sight of more weapons. She reared and kicked out, breaking the men’s ranks, and fled through the opening. The horse disappeared through the opposite trees.

Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, several knights in shining army and billowing red capes stormed in through the trees, swords flashing and ringing as they made contact. The bandits were expertly driven back, slain in their own territory with a ruthless precision that could have only been achieved by Arthur’s best knights.

Indeed, there were only four of his men fighting, outnumbered three to one.

Arthur watched with deep, bellyaching satisfaction as Sir Percival cleaved a man’s head; as Sir Leon ran through one with his sword; as Sir Elyan ducked under a wide strike and eviscerated another; as Sir Gwaine broke a man’s sword, threw away his own, and grappled savagely. Gwaine rolled to his feet near the cage, stolen key in hand and a proud grin lighting his face.

He stopped, sobering, when he locked eyes with his king. Gwaine’s gaze shifted to Merlin, lying limply in Arthur’s arms. The warlock’s lips moved, but no sound came out. But the shaggy knight was more preoccupied with the man’s appalling condition.

Moving automatically as he stared at the awful sight, Gwaine pushed the key into the lock and turned it, then opened the door. One hand reached toward Merlin as though to touch him, but then he snatched it back as anger contorted his features.

The knight wheeled around. “I’ll kill them!” he snarled, dashing off into the fray bare-handed.

Arthur remained where he was, watching and waiting.

He didn’t need to wait long. After only a moment, the last bandits were cut down, leaving three of his knights panting for breath and watching for any signs of life. Only Gwaine continued to fight, straddling a dead man and viciously slamming his fist into his broken face, blow after blow after blow.

Sirs Leon, Percival, and Elyan stared at him, almost afraid to interfere. Then Leon shook himself and hurried to his king.

“Arthur,” he said, eyes raking over him for visible injuries. Leon’s frown deepened upon sight of Merlin, but he forced himself to look at his master. “Are you harmed?”

The king mutely shook his head.

The lead knight glanced at Merlin once more, and then back. “Is he…?”

“Not dead,” Arthur mumbled, feeling exceptionally drained. “He needs Gaius.”

Leon swallowed, nodding once. “We’ve brought horses. I will personally retrieve them, and then return home.” He spun on his heel and raced off, slowing only to inform the other knights of his errand.

Percival at last stepped in and forced Gwaine to stop. The bandit had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp—the teeth bashed loose and into his throat, his nose twisted grotesquely, and one side of his bloody head caved in. All the knight’s doing.

Gwaine staggered to his feet, shrugging off his friend’s hand. “Merlin,” he gasped out. “Have you seen—what they’ve done to Merlin?!” He landed a sharp kick to a sprawled body’s ribs, resulting in an audible snap.

Sirs Elyan and Percival exchanged looks, then turned toward the cage. Their brows creased in worry when they saw that Arthur was sitting on his knees, hunched in rusty-looking chainmail over his still manservant’s body.

“Sire,” Elyan said as they approached, Percival guiding Gwaine by the arm. They looked at Merlin, eyes widening. Then they observed their king. His eyes were rimmed red, and though he was no longer crying it was obvious that he _had_ been. He also looked as though he’d taken a tumble down a muddy creek bank, as did Merlin.

Needless to say, they were devastated to see Merlin in such a condition, looking so broken and pitiful, particularly the bloody bandages covering his eyes. No one deserved such treatment as that. Their only comfort was the slow, shallow breaths the young man took, occasionally broken as he whimpered, “Arthur,” almost inaudibly.

Leon came flying back into the clearing on his horse, leading the others by their reigns. They galloped as though there were fire at their tails, and the knight did not let them slow until they came to the cage. The equestrians nickered and pawed at the ground, ears flickering irritably in the heat.

Arthur’s strong white stallion had been brought for him. The king finally shifted, eager to get on the horse and return quickly to Camelot. Merlin’s arm slipped limply, rattling the chain. It gave Arthur pause, and he cast his gaze toward the bandits as though to see which had the key. Gwaine seemed to suddenly notice the manacles and swore under his breath. Wordlessly, he joined the other three men in the hunt for the key.

Elyan was the one to find it inside the hut, as well as Arthur’s sword and knife.

Gwaine glowered as Merlin was released from his bindings, and Arthur’s stallion was brought closer and weapons stored in its saddle bag. “Why not you?” he asked, snatching up the evil steel that Elyan had laid aside. “Merlin’s chained up, but not you. _Why_?”

“Because Merlin’s…” Arthur snapped tiredly, trailing off as his energy suddenly deflated. He passed a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Leon.”

The senior knight stepped forward obediently, reaching in to support Merlin so Arthur could get up. Merlin immediately registered the replacement, and startled with a hoarse shout. The king jumped out of the cage quickly, then cupped his hands around Merlin’s swollen jaw. The sorcerer calmed, but shied away from Leon’s touch.

Arthur slowly removed his hands from Merlin’s face, dragging his fingertips lightly down his bruised skin to prove that he was not in danger, and mounted his steed. He motioned for Leon to pass him up. The knight pulled him carefully from the opening, hoisting him nearly onto his broad shoulder. Merlin fingered the chainmail.

“Knight,” he mumbled, relief evident in his voice.

With his feet secured in the stirrups, Arthur bent lower and wrapped a strong arm around Merlin’s chest, looping beneath his dangling arms. His other hand grasped the material of his trousers leg, lifting the appendage over the saddle so that he could sit in front.

Merlin’s body went rigid as he was settled into his seat, but then slumped forward. Arthur winced inwardly, apologetically, as he remembered the abuse of the previous night. There was nothing for it, though.

“Let’s go,” Arthur said in a commandeering voice, the loudest he had spoken since their arrival.

Percival was the last to mount his mare, having taken a moment to retrieve Merlin’s forgotten boots from the cage. He was sure his friend would want them later.

* * *

 

The mad dash back to Camelot had done Merlin no favors. Shortly after they had started out, Merlin had gone completely slack. Arthur had fearfully called for a halt and pressed his fingers against Merlin’s throat, holding his own breath as he searched for his pulse. It was there, weak and thready, and they had hurried on even faster than before.

Word of their arrival had preceded them, and when they came to the courtyard it was to be greeted with Queen Guinevere’s presence. Her relief at seeing her husband returned safely was quickly smothered by the horror that had been brought. Merlin was stricken.

Arthur dismounted easily, holding Merlin steady before lowering him from the steed and into his arms. He carried him as though he were a child, limbs dangling uselessly and head lolling. The king’s chest constricted. He felt as though time was running out—too quickly.

“Tell Gaius,” Arthur said, speaking to no one in particular.

Elyan, the quickest sprinter, obeyed, bounding up the castle steps like a rabbit towards the physician’s tower. Arthur and the knights followed, flocked together like a herd protecting their offspring. Gwen, shaken from her reverie, lifted her skirts and ran after them, desperate to help and to know the extent of the injuries.

When they finally reached Gaius’ chambers, Arthur’s arms and legs trembled with fatigue. Gaius, with Elyan’s help, had cleared his worktable and had begun to heat water over the fire. Clean bandages had been laid out, and several concoctions had been taken from their shelves in preparation.

Gaius was clearly in professional mode, as he did not falter at the sight of his ward when he was presented. Under his direction, Merlin was laid out on the table, and the old man immediately set to work stripping the cloths around his head.

Gwen, huffing and puffing, arrived. “Shall I help?” she asked, looking frightened but determined.

“Yes,” Gaius replied. “I’ll need you, Gwen. The rest of you, out.”

Elyan and Leon were the first to reluctantly obey, backing out of the door. Percival went, too, leaving the boots he had salvaged by the fireplace. It was becoming almost unbearably hot despite the open window.

Gwen turned to get a clean cloth and smacked into Sir Gwaine’s chest. He stepped aside distractedly, eyes locked on Merlin. “Sir Gwaine,” she said. “You’ll just be in the way…I’m sorry.”

He blinked, looking as though the queen had just struck him across the face, but then nodded slowly. Gwaine trudged backwards, then unwilling tore away his gaze and turned to leave. Arthur didn’t move.

Gaius had carefully peeled away the last layer, the binding sticking to the ruined flesh. The smell of decay, of festering, emanated from the wounds, the stench magnified by the stifling heat. The king gagged where he stood, but Gaius was unaffected.

“You, too, Arthur,” Gaius said, lifting his gaze meaningfully.

The king looked as though he were going to protest, but when Gwen crossed the room and lightly touched his arm, he relented, shoulders slumping. He allowed his wife to guide him to the exit, nudging him past the threshold.

Arthur turned to watch over Merlin, to see that his guardian did all that he could to help him, but was met with a closing door. He was shut out, left to suffer at the claws of his own predatory conscience.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

_Three Weeks Later_

 

Gaius bustled about his chambers, collecting the various herbal remedies and placebo concoctions he needed for his castle rounds. These he arranged in his medicine bag, then latched and shouldered it. He was already late, but the noblemen and their ladies would have to be patient for an elderly man getting on his years.

He went to the table by the fireplace, where Merlin sat quietly with his head bowed. The physician touched the back of Merlin’s hand that rested on the rough table, and the young man obediently turned the appendage palm up. Gaius placed the tip of his index finger on it, then slowly traced out:

R-O-U-N-D-S.

Merlin nodded, giving him a small smile. Gaius returned it sadly, though Merlin was unable to see it. He turned and left, trusting that one of the knights would stop by after training and sit with his ward. A pitcher of water and his cup had been left in easy reach, and half of the boy’s breakfast was still on his plate. He ate excruciatingly slowly.

When Merlin had been brought to him, he hadn’t at first realized the extent of his injuries. His damaged, festering eyes had been quite enough. But then he’d discovered the skull fracture behind his ear, which accounted for his later learned deafness. Gaius and Gwen had been quite devastated indeed when Merlin woke, disoriented, and only recognized where he was by the familiar smell of the apothecary.

But still, that was not the worst of it.

They had stripped him of his clothes to bathe and redress him so he might rest more comfortably, only to see that—No, Gaius could not think of it. It was too terrible. It was enough to Gaius nightmares, and Merlin suffered from them constantly as he slept. Gaius had pieced together enough from his feverish mumbling all that had happened: Arthur’s discovery and his resulting fury, and the subsequent allotment of Merlin’s _torture_. Gaius couldn’t decide whether it was a worse fate than he would have faced under Uther’s hand.

For the first week, Merlin was mostly kept in a drug-induced slumber. There was always at least one person at his side, and sometimes up to three would sit with him through the night. Gaius’ almost omnipresence was rivaled only by Gwaine’s.

Gwaine had stopped drinking.

The day Merlin and the king had been rescued, Gwaine had gone afterwards to the tavern and had drunk himself into a stupor. He had stumbled to the physician’s quarters to visit with his poor friend. His abrupt, clumsy touch, accompanied with the strong stench of liquor, had frightened Merlin to panicked tears, and Gaius had quickly shooed him out and calmed the trembling lad.

Despite the fierce hangover the next day, Gwaine had remembered the reaction. Guilt weighing heavily on his conscience, he had kept away from Merlin that afternoon, and had instead borrowed a neighboring knight’s squire to fetch him a bath and take nearly all of his clothes to the laundry. Afterwards he forced the squire to smell him and the clothing, and to report any alcohol fumes.

Only then had Gwaine returned to the tower, looking more noblesse and sober than anyone had ever seen him.

Over the days, Merlin healed. The skull fracture would heal on its own, and _perhaps_ his hearing would with it. An unlikely scenario, but there had been more miraculous recoveries than that in Gaius’ lifetime—most of them of a magical nature, but he digressed.

Merlin’s sight was unsalvageable. His eyes had been purged of their infection by means of carefully-applied maggots, which ate away the rotten flesh. It had taken a day and a half for the insects to complete their jobs, and most of them crawled out in search of a more reliable food source. Those that were left Gaius flushed out with clean, warm water. Silken thread closed the wounds, knitting the flesh but not the eyeballs themselves back together. The heart-breaking scars were covered with the softest scraps of cotton linen they could find, and were changed and sterilized every night.

The bruises faded. The scrapes on his wrists had long since disappeared. He could sit up on his own, walk with unobstructed direction. He fed himself, could still speak. Merlin recognized his friends by smell—Gwen had begun to wear the same perfume every day—even before they reached for his hand to communicate.

It had been Merlin’s idea, that method.

“Gaius,” he’d asked halfway through the second week. His mentor had gone to his bedside immediately, announcing his presence by laying his hand on his ward’s soft black curls which had been growing longer. “Where is Arthur? …He hasn’t come, has he?”

The old man had been at a loss as to how to answer. He couldn’t somehow mimic Arthur’s secret presence in the room, nor how he busied himself to exhaustion with council meetings, realm taxes, training, and brooding—and besides, the king had commanded no one inform Merlin that he had been there. How he thought the crippled man would be told Gaius didn’t know.

But Merlin had been thinking. It was all he really could do in his state, besides chatter inanely in his dark, silent world. But even that he had diminished as his friends had taken up the task. During their visits his hand was allowed to rest on their chests, and he quickly became accustomed the tickling vibrations of their voices.

“Write on my hand?” Merlin had suggested, holding one out in the general direction he knew Gaius to be.

The physician mentally kicked himself. It was such a simple solution. He should have thought of it long before then!

M-E-R-L-I-N, he had written, very slowly.

The muscles in Merlin’s palm had flexed slightly as he had done so, testing different platforms. “Merlin,” he said, grinning.

Gaius smiled, too. Then he did another test run.

H-O-W-A-R-E-Y-O-U-?

“Ho…ware…How are you?” Merlin had answered after a moment of concentration. He had already forgotten his question about Arthur.

They had practiced a good deal more, discovering which way was the easiest for Merlin to decipher. Capital letters on his flattened, upturned palm worked best. He could follow long sentences if they were done slowly enough and with brief pauses between words, but the shorter the easier. The system quickly caught on with his visitors, though Merlin still much enjoyed feeling them talk.

Gaius reached the bottom of the stairs at the same moment Gwaine did, still sweaty from the early morning knight training. The mail-clad man flashed the physician a charming smile, taking a bite out of his red apple.

“Merlin’s up?” he ascertained as he passed.

“Of course,” Gaius responded, eyebrow hitched despite the coy smile on his withered lips. “He’s waiting for you, Sir Gwaine.”

“Excellent.” Gwaine bounded up the spiraling stairs two at a time, finishing off his apple quickly. The core he chucked out of a window as he passed, running a hand along the cool stone wall. The days were less hot than they had been since the summer was waning and the rains were returning.

Gwaine did not bother to knock on the door. Merlin, by then, was used to being touched to garner his attention, and only startled if he was woken abruptly from sleep.

Merlin felt the floorboard shift minutely beneath his feet and held up his hand. A second later he caught the scent of acrid sweat, and knew it was a knight. He felt Gwaine’s familiar, callused fingers, and he smiled.

“Gwaine. How was practice?” he asked, his voice a little louder than necessary. He had lost volume control and articulacy precision in his deafness, but no one quite minded that.

A-W-F-U-L, Gwaine wrote, shaking his head.

Merlin chuckled. “Has it been raining?”

N-O, he answered, taking a seat beside him at the table. S-U-N.

“Too hot, then,” Merlin mused.

Gwaine tapped the heel of the warlock’s palm twice, their quick sign for an affirmative or agreement. He noted the half-eaten hunk of bread on Merlin’s plate, and refilled Merlin’s cup with water. He absently brushed away the smattering of crumbs that trailed from the plate to the edge of the table.

“Are Leon and Percival back from patrol?”

N-O.

“Did you see Elyan and Gwen off this morning? They’ve left to visit their father’s grave, right?”

Two affirmatives.

“How is…How is Arthur?”

Gwaine paused at the question, instantly feeling his blood boil. The mere mention of the king was enough to anger him, and seeing him at training every morning was even worse. He’d skipped several sessions in the last week alone because Leon was not there to force him to attend. If Arthur had noticed his absence, he certainly didn’t seem to care.

He had been absorbed in his own interests, and rarely spoke to anyone unless he had to. Arthur divided most of his time between his chambers and the council room, and at the times he disappeared it was to secretly watch Merlin in Gaius’ quarters. He refused to allow anyone to tell Merlin he was there.

It was _that_ that really pissed the knight off.

And King Arthur still hadn’t told them the full story, he was sure. His flimsy excuse that the bandit leader didn’t harm him in order to secure full payment of the ransom wasn’t enough. Arthur could have promised extra gold for Merlin’s safety. And Arthur wasn’t the one who had been chained up, either.

Gwaine had gotten a look at the cuffs, saw the rune work etched on the inside. Magic restraints. He’d known all along of Merlin’s abilities, but never mentioned it to anyone, even Merlin, out of fear for his safety. The warlock seemed to have been getting along on his own well enough.

He suspected that Arthur had discovered Merlin’s magic somehow. But then why did he not execute Merlin? And why the despair when they were rescued? Was he acting? Or was he biding his time until Merlin had fully healed, only to throw him in the dungeons once he was stable? Gwaine would not allow that: He would fight to his last breath.

“Gwaine?”

The knight snapped out of his brooding thoughts, blinking. Merlin had cocked his head to one side with a frown, expressing his concern.

F-I-N-E, Gwaine wrote at last, answering the question with a lie. B-U-S-Y.

Merlin nodded, smiling sadly. “Well, he _is_ the king.”

Gwaine clenched his jaw, feeling sick with shame. Merlin deserved much better.

He grasped Merlin’s hand and placed it on his chest, launching into a long-winded rendition of the happenings of the morning. Gwen usually talked about what people had been up to—babies born, couples married, the latest kitchen gossip, that sort of thing. Leon recited from teachings of the olden greats, Gaius sometimes chiming in where he faltered. Elyan talked about his travels, but Gwaine always insisted that there wasn’t enough adventure in them to make a good story—because Elyan never exaggerated. Percival rarely spoke: he hummed nonsensically. Whether Merlin could tell the difference or not they didn’t know, but either way it didn’t particularly matter.

“You wouldn’t _believe_ the nerves of some of these squires, mate,” Gwaine complained. “Strutting around the field like they own it. Nobles, pah! A good bar fight is what they need to toughen them up. There’s nothing quite so gratifying as a brawl, I’ll you. Especially a drunken one; you don’t feel it until the morning.”

When Gwaine ran out of words, he fell silent. Merlin sensed that he was finished and pulled his hand away.

“Is it still sunny?” he asked, holding his palm upwards.

Gwaine tapped twice for yes.

“Will you open the window and move my chair to sunlight? I want to feel it.”

The knight obliged immediately, tugging slightly up on Merlin’s arm to indicate that he should stand. Merlin did so, and Gwaine led him toward the sunny patch that streamed in from the high window, placing the stool a little in front of it so the light would impact the warlock’s face. He patted Merlin’s shoulder and directed his hand to the seat so that he would sit, then opened the window to let in the warm breeze. Lastly, Gwaine retrieved his chair and settled beside him.

“Thanks.”

They sat in companionable silence until Gaius’ return nearly two hours later.

Gwaine stood respectfully, a greeting on the tip of his tongue, but it died away when he saw that the physician was not unaccompanied. King Arthur entered with him.

While Gaius looked a bit stiffened in his presence, Arthur was rigid. His shoulder muscles bunched under his red satin jacket that he had worn to his council meeting, and though his blonde hair was neatly combed it looked thin and lank. His face was sallow and ashen as though he were ill, and dark bags encircles his eyes. The cut over his right eyebrow had healed, leaving only a faint pink line that would go away in time.

All in all, the king looked like death warmed over.

Yet Gwaine couldn’t even find it in himself to pity the wretched soul. His heart had gone completely to Merlin, and there it would stay.

Merlin was unaware of the goings on, deafblind as he was.

“Sir Gwaine,” Arthur said authoritatively, “you are dismissed.”

The knight immediately bristled like an affronted dog, lips curling back into a snarl.

But Gaius shook his head slightly, raising an eyebrow meaningfully and dipping his chin. Nostrils flaring as he forced himself to breathe, Gwaine spun around. Looking down at his precious friend, he calmed and tenderly lifted Merlin’s hand. The warlock tilted his head in attention as Gwaine wrote a message.

D-U-T-Y.

He smiled. “Go on, then. Don’t be late, Gwaine.”

Gwaine gave his hand a small squeeze, an unspoken promise to return later, then released him. His expression hardened as he turned away, and he resolutely kept his eyes averted from his king. His muscles quivered as he stormed past the man, begging for release, for a fight. But he couldn’t, not without jeopardizing his freedom.

He had to force himself to not slam the door behind him, and clopped loudly down the stairs so that _his highness_ would know he had obeyed.

Gaius exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Then he cast a sidelong glance to King Arthur, who was, as usual, staring intently at an oblivious Merlin.

“You wished to speak to me, Sire?” he prompted.

The king blinked slowly, coming back to himself as he registered the question. “Yes,” he mumbled. Then he cleared his throat and repeated more firmly, “Yes. How is Merlin, Gaius?”

“He is healing well,” Gaius answered. “But I think this is as well as he will ever be, Sire.”

Arthur nodded, frowning. “Gaius, under no circumstance are you to discuss this with anyone not in this room.”

The old man shot a look towards Merlin dubiously. “Understood, Sire.”

“Could…” Arthur cut himself off, closing his eyes as his brow pinched in response to some psychological pain. He took a deep breath and started again: “Could _magic_ repair his senses?”

Gaius stared at him hard. He reluctantly supplied, “Yes, I suppose it could, if used correctly.”

“I give you permission to wield magic for the purpose of restoring Merlin to his full health,” Arthur said regally.

The physician staggered back, shocked. “But, Sire…”

“But what, Gaius?”

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “I do not have nearly the power necessary to do something so incredible, Sire.”

Arthur scowled, jaw working. “Then…Then have Merlin heal himself. Tell him.”

“Merlin? Himself?” Gaius, despite knowing that Arthur knew, was not quite ready to give up the charade.

“He’s got magic!” Arthur spat, gesturing wildly in his direction. “I’ve seen him use it, Gaius! I’ve seen him use it loads of times, but I’ve never pieced it together until he—until—“

Gaius had resisted the urge to step back from the sheer force Arthur had used to propel his words. He composed himself silently for a moment, just as Arthur struggled to reign back his suppressed emotions. The old man noted the striking resemblance this distraught Arthur bore to his father after the death of Ygraine.

Arthur swallowed thickly, eyes watering. He blinked them back furiously, but when he looked up to Gaius again his carefully-erected barrier broke once more. He turned his sapphire eyes to Merlin, who could only enjoy the kiss of the sun’s warmth on his skin. Was that all that was left for him?

“Gaius,” he whispered. “Gaius…I’ve made a terrible, unforgivable mistake.”

The old man looked a bit disturbed, but also concerned. He clasped his hands in front of him, setting his shoulders back. “Arthur,” he said. “Perhaps it would benefit your health and mind if you were to share, and then to listen, and then to sleep.”

Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. “Benefit me,” he muttered. “Meaning you want to know what I’ve done, why I’ve allowed this to happen to your ward who is like a son to you. Everyone blames me—rightfully so—and now it is only fitting that I confess.”

For a moment Gaius considered denying it. “I do not doubt, Arthur,” he said carefully, “that you regret your actions, whatever they were. And while regret changes nothing, it may lead to a better future. Come, sit with me. We will let Merlin enjoy himself there for a while before I let him know I am here.”

The king was guided to Gaius’ straw-filled cot on the other side of the chamber. If Merlin decided to get up he would not accidentally discover them, nor would he feel the shift of the floorboards from the distance.

Arthur sat heavily and slumped over, burdened with his memories and grief.

“I think, Gaius,” he said, “that my father was wrong. About magic.”

“Indeed,” Gaius agreed. “I myself had advocated that conclusion, as had many others. Most were martyred for their beliefs.”

The king nodded tiredly, remembering the story of Gaius’ _redemption_ in the eyes of his father. “Yes. And Merlin nearly joined them by my condemnation.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Arthur?” Gaius asked softly.

So Arthur did. He began with the hunting trip, of their fall from the cliff, of Merlin’s rescue; of their capture by the bandits, of Merlin’s _punishment_ —most details left aside; of Arthur’s thoughts, of his revelation; of Merlin’s _forgiveness_ of Arthur’s sins in an instant.

Gaius had remained silent for the entire telling, looking sad but understanding. He was not angry. Arthur almost wished he were, that Gaius would hate him. He deserved it, after all.

“And now, Sire, if you’ll allow me,” he said, “I will tell _my_ story from the beginning.”

Arthur indicated permission with an inclination of his head.

“Nearly five and twenty years ago now, my younger sister wrote to me from a tiny village called Ealdor. You may have heard of it, Arthur. She had taken in the persecuted sorcerer I had sent to her in secret, a young man who had been quite the friend to me. In her letter she had described his escape in the dead of night when knights of Camelot had attacked, having crossed the border. She was quite devastated and asked whether I had been contacted by him, or if I might know his whereabouts. It was very important to her that she find him, though she did not tell me why.

“A few months later I received another letter from my sister. This one detailed her dire situation, begging my speedy reply with advice. She was unable to contact the sorcerer, and I had been unsuccessful as well. Apparently, when I had sent him to her, they had fallen in love. He had impregnated her, and she had only discovered this a few weeks after his departure.

“In this second letter, she informed me that the child had already been born in the spring. A boy. She told me that when he’d first opened his eyes, they were gold. This son of hers was born with magic, Arthur. He was a warlock. Very rare, and very powerful, and so much like his father in many ways.

“My sister asked what she should do. She feared for her son’s life. If his magic was discovered, he could be killed. In Escetir, magic was—and is—legal, but sorcerers are required by the king to serve in the army, and are regarded with great mistrust. And because Uther had shown no qualms about sending knights across the border, he could very well be killed by him, too.

“I was no longer a young man then. I had followed your father across the land when he conquered Camelot, stayed when he had married your mother, and still I am here. But my sister was but seventeen years old when she gave birth. She was too young to know the true cruelties of the world, and she feared it.

“In her letter she begged my advice. She begged me to take her child and raise him as my own, to teach him to hide his magic. That I could not do, not as close as I was to your father. Then she had written that she would drown her son to spare him the evils of the Purge.

“I feared that she may have already done so, that her letter had reached me too late and that mine would not arrive to stop such senseless mercy. I quickly wrote in return, telling her to let the boy live. She was the one who would have to raise him quietly. He was a bastard and would not easily be accepted into the village anyway, and it would give her a chance to keep him away, to keep him safe.

“She did as I asked.” Gaius paused here, a faraway look in his eyes.

A wry smile turned up the corners of Arthur’s lips. “I am clever enough to know that the child of which you speak is Merlin. Ha, born with magic. I might have known that Merlin can do nothing conventionally.”

“Indeed,” Gaius smiled. “My sister, Hunith, and my ward my nephew, Merlin. So named because his father had once hunted with one, and delighted Hunith by training the falcon to pick the sweetest apples from the tops of the trees for her. She had hoped that Merlin would live up to his namesake and fly far above the chaos and destruction.”

“Humph,” Arthur breathed. Then he frowned and sat up a little straighter. “You know who his father is? Haven’t you ever told him?”

“I have, Sire.”

“Merlin told me he didn’t know his father.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Then he did not know when he told you. I only informed him four years ago, Sire.”

Arthur looked at him expectantly. “Who is he? Did Merlin meet him?”

The physician smiled sadly. “He did, Sire. In fact, Merlin was there for his dying breath. But,” he said sternly, “that is to come later. Remember, I am telling you the story from start to finish, a brief one though it will be. We cannot skip pages, Arthur.

“I confess I do not know much about Merlin’s childhood. I never had the opportunity nor the time to travel to Ealdor, and Hunith could not bring the child here. But you remember that Merlin arrived on his own almost six years ago, now. He had been sent by his mother to me in the hopes that I could teach him better control, though his apprenticeship to me had not been entirely a guise.

“When I met him, he saved my life. I had been up on the balcony by that bookshelf,” he pointed, “and had fallen. I would have died had he not used magic. And so would you have, Sire, had Merlin not used it at the feast that evening. He saved two lives in the same day with his illegal magic, even after his greeting to the city had been the execution of a sorcerer.

“Merlin always wanted to help, to do good. He wanted to prove that magic was not evil, that it was a gift. Much like a sword does no harm on its own, so does magic. Merlin wanted to tell you, Sire, many times. It was I, and another whom I cannot mention, who convinced him not to at many junctures. He’d also wanted to tell Morgana as her magic developed, to help her as I helped him, and we prevented that as well. Perhaps if I hadn’t…But regret changes nothing.

“The boy has risked life and limb countless times to protect you, and others. He once tried to trade his life for yours. He defeated Nimueh, and won back _four_ souls that night. But his many exploits are tales for another time, and perhaps better told by Merlin himself.”

Arthur opened his mouth as though to protest, but was given no chance as Gaius continued.

“It is important that you know of this part of Merlin, for just as you were born a prince and inherited your kingship, Merlin was born a warlock and inherited a lordship of his own. No, don’t interrupt, Arthur. Listen.

“When the Great Dragon escaped his lair and laid siege to Camelot, you were sent on a quest to bring back the last Dragonlord, Balinor. You will remember that Dragonlords have a kinship with dragons, and can speak to and even command them. I knew the direction he lay, and knew that there was a chance Merlin would meet his father on this journey. That was when I told him, moments before your departure.

“I expect he was quite shocked and confused.

“He told me the story after the defeat of the Great Dragon, and this is as it goes: You both traveled to the place that Balinor was rumored to be, but you, Arthur, were wounded. Merlin tried to save you with his skills, but it was not enough. Luckily, there was a hidden cave nearby, and there he met a man who healed you. This man was Balinor, he came to find, as did you when you had woken.

“It had taken much to convince him to return to Camelot, but in the end he’d agreed. According to Merlin, you had taken to sleep, leaving him and Balinor alone. They spoke.

“Balinor had once passed through Ealdor, and remembered my sister Hunith, Merlin’s mother. He was glad to assume that she had married and bore Merlin with her husband, but no—Merlin insisted she’d never married. Rather, he was the bastard son of Hunith and a sorcerer who had been forced to flee. That sorcerer was Balinor.”

“No!” Arthur gasped, eyes widening. “That cannot be, it—Merlin would have told…me.”

Gaius merely regarded him solemnly. “I assume you know the rest of that story. The bandit attack, and Balinor’s death. Balinor gave his life to protect his son.”

“Yes,” Arthur responded absently. “I told him that no man was worth his tears…But ‘twas his father…His _father_ , Gaius! I cried when my father was killed by Dragoon, but I did not give Merlin that same luxury…”

After a moment of silence in which he gazed guiltily at Merlin across the room, Gaius continued his story. “When Balinor took his last breath, the magic of his dragon blood left him, and was activated—inherited—in Merlin’s. Now, Merlin is the last Dragonlord.

“So, Sire, I am sorry to inform you that it was not _you_ who had defeated the Great Dragon. It was Merlin.”

Arthur dropped his head into his hands. “I am such a fool.”

“No, Arthur,” Gaius said. “You were misguided for all your young life. But now you are learning the truth, and it will be you who will become greater than your father.”

“Then why do I feel like a failure?”

“Perhaps it is because you have not mended the bridge,” Gaius said, directing his gaze pointedly to Merlin.

The warlock was still sitting in the sunny patch, the light dappling across his pale face. He had lifted a hand, apparently amusing himself by playing with the warmth.

“Right,” Arthur said. He stood abruptly. “Merlin has waited for your return for quite a while now, Gaius. I still have questions.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

“Could we contact the Druids? Would they help?”

“I’m sure they would, Sire. They would do all they could for Emrys.” At the look of confusion he was given, Gaius clarified: “Merlin’s Druidic name is Emrys.”

“I see,” Arthur said, but he didn’t really. “How would we reach the Druids?”

“Merlin could call for them.”

“But he can’t…You mean with magic.”

“I suppose so,” Gaius said. “I’m not sure mind-speak would qualify as magic. I don’t have the ability myself, but when it is used there is no outward sign of magic being used.”

“ _Mind-speak_?”

“It is difficult to explain,” Gaius sighed wearily. “Perhaps it is a better question for Merlin, or for the Druids. They experience it, and so know more than I.”

Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Very well. I shall learn everything there is to know about Merlin once he’s…he’s well again. Go and tell him that he will call the Druids.”

“Sire.” Gaius stood slowly, his arthritic knees creaking, and hobbled across the room. His withered hands took Merlin’s raised one, and gently persuaded him to flip it over.

“Hello, Gaius. Did you—hm? Call…” Merlin deciphered when his mentor began to write, “the…Dr—Druids? Gaius, are you mad?”

Gaius chuckled and wrote N-O.

Words slightly slurred in his excitement, Merlin said, “I won’t call the Druids here, Gaius. They will only get in trouble. I won’t endanger them in order to heal me.”

Gaius tried to write more on his palm, but Merlin stubbornly retracted his hand and closed it into a fist. “No,” he said emphatically. “I won’t, Gaius, and nothing will convince me. Besides, everyone would _know_ that magic had healed me.”

Throughout the conversation, Arthur had approached. It had hurt that Merlin was so fearful of the king’s wrath still, but then again he had given Merlin no reason to relax. For all he knew, Arthur still planned on executing him, or perhaps banishing him or imprisoning him for the rest of his life.

“I’d rather stay like this,” Merlin said quietly, “than be banished or burned, or be the cause of another’s needless death.”

The words broke Arthur’s heart, and by the looks of it Gaius’ as well. Frustration swiftly overwhelmed the king, and strode forward the last few steps between himself and Merlin. He roughly grasped Merlin’s hand and forced it open, and furiously scrawled out his order.

It had all been too fast, too frightening, for Merlin to comprehend. Mouth open in surprise and confusion, Merlin remained stock still, brow furrowed. When Arthur didn’t let go of his hand, he shrank back a little, unable to make out what had been said. He said nothing, unable to form words.

Gaius looked at the king warily, eyes flickering between Arthur and Merlin. He desperately wanted to step in, but somehow could not find it in himself to do so.

After a moment, Arthur deflated, shoulders sinking. He loosened his bruising grip, but Merlin did not pull away. The king had the idea that Merlin knew it was him. Much more gently and slowly, Arthur carefully traced out a single word:

S-O-R-R-Y.

He cupped one hand around the back of Merlin’s head, fingers caressing the softness of his hair and the linen wrap, and bent forward. He pressed his lips to Merlin’s brow, hoping to convey his emotions through the simple, intimate action. Then Arthur took his leave, head bowed with shame and self-loathing.

Merlin sat on his hands and refused to speak with his mentor.

* * *

 

“Gwaine,” Merlin said, interrupting him midsentence. “Will you take me outside, please?”

The knight was surprised. Merlin had never asked to leave Gaius’ chambers in all the three and half weeks he’d been back. Of course, he was bedridden for the first ten days, and then he still had much strength to recover. Perhaps he was feeling well—and restless.

Gwaine turned inquiringly to Gaius, who merely shrugged his consent. “If you wish to accompany him,” Gaius said, returning his attention to the phials he was mixing.

He grinned and stood, pushing Merlin’s elbow up to signal that he should get up as well. Merlin smiled graciously and waited as Gwaine retrieved his jacket and helped him shrug into it. Then, with a parting wink to Gaius, the knight led Merlin at a leisurely pace to the door. The stairs they took even slower, with Gwaine leading the way and Merlin following with his hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder for direction and support.

Soon enough, they had reached the end of the flight of steps, and Gwaine resumed his place at Merlin’s side, draping an arm around his scrawny shoulders. Subtly guiding him in this aloof manner, the knight and his favorite companion made way to the courtyard outside.

Merlin’s smile broadened when they stepped out into the open air. He felt the change: the air was warmer but not stifling; a breeze wafted lazily around him; the stone steps turned to cobbling beneath his boots. Gwaine smiled to see his friend smile, observing Merlin’s happiness rather than taking in the familiar sight of Camelot square.

But then the warlock’s smile faded slightly. “They’re staring at me, aren’t they,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

Gwaine furrowed his brow and looked up, and noticed that there were several people—servants and pages, the blacksmith’s wife, a trio of squires—looking in their direction. Or rather, _Merlin’s_ direction. They all drank in the sight of Arthur’s former manservant, crippled from his abuse at the hands of bandits. The knight scowled, tightening his hold around Merlin.

“I can feel their eyes on me,” Merlin said, voice surprisingly low. “Some pitying, I expect, others just morbidly fascinated. I’ll be the gossip of the town tonight.” He laughed bitterly.

The knight was dumbstruck, unsure what to do. The protective part of him wanted to guide Merlin back to the tower, away from prying eyes; his angry side wanted to bark at the gawkers, demand that they be on their way and leave innocent people be. But both of those pieces of himself knew that neither of those would be what Merlin wanted.

“Gwaine, can you take me out of the city?” he pleaded. “Only for a little while…There’s a particular place out in the forest where no one goes.”

Still the man hesitated, considering it. He mentally inventoried himself, feeling the weight of his sword at his hip, the muscle memory of fighting. Gwaine was well-prepared to protect Merlin. But still, it perhaps wasn’t wise to bend to Merlin’s will here.

“Please?” Merlin held up his palm for an answer. “Please.”

Gwaine placed his finger on the platform, looking conflicted. Then he tapped twice for yes.

Merlin grinned.

The pair left the city, arms linked together. They were given curious looks as they passed, some more discreet than others, and some openly staring. Gwaine did his best to ignore those, eager to get Merlin to the destination which he described. His directions had been very specific, so the knight knew that he had often visited the place.

It was a slower pace than they would walk under normal circumstances, but considering that it was anything but _normal_ , the friends made good progress.

In no time they had made it to the lower town, and weaved their way through the milling crowd. Most respectfully moved out of the way when they saw the two coming, and Gwaine nodded courteously to those people. He was unsure whether it was more due to _his_ presence than Merlin’s, who was well-liked in these parts.

Then they exited the city gates, unquestioned by the guards posted.

From there Gwaine was forced to recall Merlin’s directions: “ _Follow the road from the gate a little ways, and then turn left once you see the tree with a knotted branch._ ”

He started forward with hardly a pause, and Merlin followed. The warlock’s grip on his sleeve had tightened almost imperceptibly as his nose registered the scent of the forest. They were on their way.

Up ahead and to the left, Gwaine spotted the tree Merlin had described. It was a tall and mighty, no different from the other trees around it but for the twisted branch that hung over the road. This branch produced no leaves, and had a deadened appearance—crippled by a lightning strike some years back. He turned left.

“ _Keep going this way, as straight as possible. You should come across the clearing soon. It’s surrounded by scarred trees._ ”

“Scarred trees,” he muttered under his breath. Gwaine wondered if this meadow for which they were heading was the alleged place Arthur had defeated the Great Dragon. If that were so, Gwaine could think of no reason why Merlin would visit it—unless he so revered his king that he returned to his battlefields, or that no one else ever came there. Perhaps it was just a place to be alone for a bit.

Merlin spoke, voice almost startling. “We’re getting close.”

The knight gave his arm a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement.

“Will you make sure no one else is here?”

Gwaine indicated that he would. He probably would have done it without prompting. It was a private affair, their being here, and there was enough rumor and gossip to go around since everyone gawked at him as he passed through town. Sure, most of it was pity for his condition, but he knew Merlin hated to be pitied.

The trees thinned a bit, and they arrived almost suddenly at the clearing. Some trees bore black scorch marks, and some trunks were even naked of branches and bark on one side. A bare patch of ground was visible, but the rest of the grass was unaffected, dancing in the breeze.

“We’re here,” Merlin breathed, lifting his covered face to the sun. “You check around. I can take myself from here.”

Gwaine grinned, patted his shoulder, and went off with his hand on his hilt. He didn’t discover anyone, at any rate, and cast constant glances back to ensure that Merlin was all right. The warlock was, indeed, simply shuffling towards the center of the clearing. He knew where he was going.

The knight returned to his side, reaching down to take his hand.

C-L-E-A-R.

Merlin smiled swiftly, but just as suddenly he sobered. “Gwaine,” he said urgently, “please don’t be frightened—or angry. Okay?”

He frowned, confused, but quickly wrote, N-E-V-E-R.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Merlin’s mouth, but Gwaine knew he was nervous. “Okay.”

The warlock took a deep breath, turning forward and tucking his chin towards his chest. Then, in a deep, powerful voice that rose in volume, Merlin began to speak, raising his face as foreign words rolled off his tongue. Gwaine almost staggered back, surprised by the sheer force. He stared at his younger friend, looking a mixture of curious, wary, and alarmed. He half wondered whether Merlin had lost his mind.

Merlin finished, lowered his head again as though it were some sacred part of a ritual. The woods were silent. It was as though Merlin had frozen time—the winds had stilled, the birds had quieted, and even Gwaine hardly dared to breathe.

His attuned ears picked up a small sound, like a flag flapping in the wind. But there was no wind, and certainly no flag. Gwaine, senses buzzing, moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, eyes roaming the tree line. Someone was coming: The sound grew louder with each passing beat.

And then he realized that it did not come from the trees, but from above. Accommodating this, he raised his gaze—He promptly fell back in shock, gaping. A huge golden dragon was headed straight for them, maw stretching wide as it bulleted closer. It was four—no, five!—times the size of any wyvern he’d come across.

_Merlin!_

He moved to tackle his unawares friend to the ground, to protect him, but had no more than gotten his feet underneath him than the dragon had landed with a mighty jolt of the earth. Gwaine was knocked to the grass again, and Merlin wobbled once—twice, and then regained his footing.

“Kilgharrah,” he greeted warmly.

 _Please don’t be frightened,_ Merlin had asked, _or angry._

Now Gwaine understood.

The dragon sat, wrapping his thick tail around himself as though to claim the spot as his own. Huge muscles rippled beneath its scaly golden hide, and dangerous talons dug into the soft grass. His intelligent—and wiser than any the knight had ever seen—eyes locked first onto Merlin, apparently studying him. Then they shifted to Gwaine, who remained where he was. There was no need to offer the creature a reason to attack him.

Finding Gwaine to be no threat, the dragon returned his attention to Merlin.

Neither of them spoke, but Gwaine was certain that they were having a conversation all of their own. Merlin had shaken his head or nodded in the same manner he did when speaking aloud, and Kilgharrah, if that was its name, blinked and cocked its head as well. Gwaine had heard that Druids could speak within each other’s minds, so it made sense if other magic users could do so as well. That must have been what was happening.

Gwaine stood slowly, and Kilgharrah’s eyes flicked to him but did not linger. Rather, the dragon drew himself up a bit, chest puffing as though saying something important. The knight saw a genuine compassion in the dragon’s eyes. It was obvious that the magical creature was not so _evil_. No more evil than people, anyway.

This unsettling silent-speak lasted only a moment more before Merlin finally addressed the knight: “Gwaine. You’ll need to stand back.”

* * *

 

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin greeted warmly once the ground had settled.

 _Young warlock,_ Kilgharrah returned, voice laced with concern. _It has been long. Too long, perhaps. I knew that something had happened, yet I was not sure what. Now I see it is worse than I imagined…Who is your friend?_

Merlin was glad to see the flash of Gwaine that Kilgharrah sent to him, sprawled on the ground and looking more shocked than terrified. It was the first he’d actually seen of his friend since before he left on that god-forsaken hunt with Arthur. _His name is Sir Gwaine. If he didn’t know of my magic before, he does now._

_You trust him?_

_Explicitly_ , Merlin answered. _Kilgharrah, I come seeking your advice—your help._

 _You wish me to restore your sight and hearing,_ the dragon mused. _Would not someone notice such a miracle?_

 _Yes. But Gaius asked me to heal myself with magic. It was Arthur who had suggested it. He even_ told _me to himself._

For a moment the Great Dragon did not respond, apparently digesting this new information. _I see. Then you, young warlock, and your king will cross_ that _particular bridge when you come to it._

Merlin smiled. _It would seem so. Will you help me?_

 _I shall,_ Kilgharrah said. _But we must do this quickly, young warlock. Time is short. Tell Sir Gwaine to step back. It will take a lot of magic for this, and I do not wish him to be caught in the crosshairs._

“Gwaine,” Merlin said, turning slightly. “You’ll need to stand back.”

The dragon watched with some amusement as Gwaine blustered, looking first incredulously at Merlin and then at the dragon. “Now hold on!” he cried. Then he grasped Merlin’s hand, shaking his head with a furrowed brow, and attempted to write.

Merlin took his hand back, pushing Gwaine lightly back. “No, trust me!” he said reassuringly. “Stand back a bit. It will be fine, Gwaine. I promise.”

Praying that Merlin knew precisely what he was doing, Gwaine reluctantly took one step back. Then another. And another, haltingly. Under Kilgharrah’s watchful gaze, he moved back about three and a half feet before stubbornly stopping.

“That’s far enough, young knight,” said a voice—unmistakably from the dragon.

Gwaine jolted in surprise, jaw dropping, but before he had a chance to recollect himself and demand answers, Merlin stepped directly before the dragon.

Kilgharrah’s maw opened, revealing rows of jagged teeth and a long, slimy red tongue. A golden plume of fire—of _magic_ —gushed forth from the orifice, engulfing Merlin’s lanky figure. On pure reflex, Gwaine danced forward as though to rush in and save him, but a tug somewhere in his mind convinced him to stay.

The golden cloud began to disperse immediately once Kilgharrah reared his head, looking decidedly pleased. Merlin still stood amidst the smoke, as like a statue.

“Farewell,” he said abruptly, spreading his wings. “Goodbye, young warlock. Young knight.”

With a few powerful thrusts of his wings, the dragon was in the air. He propelled himself forward, and Gwaine couldn’t help but to watch him go until he was but a speck in the distance. Then he shook himself, and looked at Merlin.

He had moved his hands to the sides of his head, pressing his palms against it—as though he were in pain.

“Merlin!” Gwaine gasped, rushing to him.

He stopped short again when Merlin turned, lowering his hands a bit. A grin broke out on the young man’s face. “I heard you,” he said. Then, more giddily, “I heard you!”

Gwaine stared, blinking owlishly.

Merlin pushed his eye covering up, causing his hair to stick up in an even more ridiculous fashion. His eyes slammed shut at the bright light, which he hadn’t seen for half a month. Despite having his eyes closed, it did little to deter the warlock from exclaiming, “I can see! I can see!” He ripped the rest of the bandana from his head and cast it aside.

The knight had still not moved from his spot.

Merlin’s bottle blue eyes, clear of their scars, fluttered open, dazzling in the sunlight. His exuberant smile made them light up all the more. “I can see! I can hear!” he gasped out, pressing his hands to his ears again.

Gwaine pinched himself hard.

Then he grinned. “Well, bugger me, mate!”

* * *

 

Arthur, arms folded over his chest, stared moodily down at the courtyard from his window. The dark bags under his eyes were deeper than ever, and his bottom lip was chapped and scabbed from the constant worrying of his teeth.

He hadn’t visited Merlin since he had frightfully announced his presence, had commanded Merlin to find the Druids to heal him. That had been three days previous. The king had afterwards forbidden anyone to even mention Merlin to him, and though he could tell there was something they desperately wanted to say to him he cut them off each time.

Even Gwen had had enough of his outrageous behavior, and had taken residence in one of the guest chambers nearer to her brother’s rooms. Probably for the best, he’d thought at the time, but now he really missed her comforting arms around him, her sweet whispered words in his ear.

But all that only served to remind him of his mistakes. Each time he was reminded of his mistakes, he grew angry with himself, and those around him bore the brunt of those frustrations. It was a quality he hated in himself, but one Arthur did not know how to fix.

He sighed and closed his eyes, dropping his aching head forward onto the cool glass pane.

Something was dropped at his feet.

The king opened his eyes and glanced down to see a leather hunting pack, filled to the brim with gear, food, and a bedroll. Anger seized him.

Arthur wheeled around, a snarl on his lips.

He stopped short when his gaze met a pair of familiar blue eyes. They were set in a familiar, high-cheekboned face, one that was often full of kindness, of exasperation and sarcasm, of forgiveness. Atop these features was an unruly mop of black hair, the ends flicking up in every direction in the beginnings of curls. On either side, looking marginally less large on account of the hair that partially obscured them, were stuck-out ears.

There was no mistaking it.

“…Merlin…?” Arthur breathed, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

“You look terrible, Sire,” Merlin quipped, struggling to quash a cheeky grin. “Let’s go hunting. There’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.”


End file.
